


who is mystery woman?

by mxntparnasse



Category: Hedwig and the Angry Inch - Trask/Mitchell, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Crossover, Drag Queens, F/M, M/M, Murder, Trans Character, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:57:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9669797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxntparnasse/pseuds/mxntparnasse
Summary: montparnasse has an angry inch (and a closet full of designer clothes)





	

Anyone who knew Montparnasse knew her glamorous entrances. She'd been known to break open windows, kick through glass doors, and- once- she'd simply been waiting in Claquesous' bed, wearing only a rose between her teeth and a full face of makeup. That night, they'd been called to meet with her for something "urgent! Come at eight or you're dead." It was nearing nine and, of course, Montparnasse was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully, she'd at least use the door.

Somewhere, distantly, someone was blasting some bad American music.   
"That'll be her, I assume."   
"Probably." Claquesous' lips didn't move as he spoke. The music got louder and closer- Montparnasse could be fucking noisy when she wanted to be.   
The door burst inward, almost cracking under the force, just as the song reached its chorus.   
Montparnasse was grinning from ear to ear, one glittering gold boot still in the air. There didn't seem to be much under the fur shawl she was wearing, but they all knew better than to look after having known her so long. Behind her was the source of the music- a red-haired boy carrying a frankly massive boombox on one leather-clad shoulder.  
"Hello, boys!" she laughed.   
"Hello, Montparnasse," came the tired chorus.  
"Who's behind you?" Babet asked.   
"Prouvaire. Green card boy six days of the week." She grinned at them.   
"Prouvaire? Come on in, why don't you s-"  
"It won't be necessary. He goes where I go," she said lightly. "Now! Down to business."   
"What business?"   
"We've been commissioned!"   
She tipped herself backwards onto the overstuffed couch, paying no heed to the room Gueulemer was already taking up.   
"I'm sitting here, you-"  
"I know!" she laughed.   
"How high are you?"   
"Perfectly blasted!"   
"Your natural working state," Claquesous muttered, projecting across the room to where one of the cats was asleep on the windowsill.   
"Ass!" she laughed.   
"Commission. Go."   
"Right! Commission. We're killing the Prime Minister."   
"You came in high to tell us we were killing the second most powerful person in the country?"   
Babet was staring at her with undisguised displeasure, but Montparnasse paid no mind as she smiled at him.   
"Precisely! Don't worry, Prouvaire won't talk. He's undocumented."   
"That won't stop him."   
"He knows I'll slit his throat in an instant." She was across the room in a flash, two fingers under Prouvaire's chin. "Isn't that right, dear?"   
"Yes, Montparnasse."   
"See? Now. There's a gala in a week, we're getting ourselves in and I'll shoot him."   
"There's no guarantee that'll work."  
"Do you have any better plans?"   
"You could poison his drink," Prouvaire pointed out. A murmur of agreement passed through the room. Montparnasse was quick to laugh- she was the queen of this gang, and no _boy_ was going to replace her.   
"I said better, not idiotic."   
"Bitch," he muttered under his breath. When Montparnasse turned her back, he unfolded the newspaper on the coffee table so Bizarro's grinning face in stark black-and-white was plain.   
"We'll shoot him, then. Silence the gun, aim from a distance, and no one will ever know."   
"That seems like we're asking to be caught. I mean, a lot could go wrong."   
"They'll never catch us," Montparnasse laughed, quicksilver smile bright on her painted lips. "They can't! I'm invincible, at this point."   
"I can't imagine anyone ever catching up to you," Prouvaire said quietly from across the room.   
"What? Nevermind, it's not important."   
She seemed to settle for a few minutes, until  
the newspaper caught her eye.   
"Claquesous, you never told me I was _famous_."   
She sounded positively delighted, practically purring as she admired herself. Bizarro snarled up at her from the front cover, reading "TERROR OF PARIS ESCAPES." In the corner, though, was a photo of Montparnasse- one of her few mugshots. "Who is mystery woman?" she laughed, reading her own headline aloud. "I ask myself daily, how did this slip of a girlyboy from communist East Berlin become the terror of Paris?"   
"You're hardly-" Gueulemer began. Montparnasse shot him a glare, quieting him almost instantly.   
As quickly as it had come, her delight was gone and replaced by an intense, furious impatience. After a few moments of quiet frustration bubbling in her chest, she shot to her feet and began to pace like a TV detective in go-go boots.   
"I can't believe that fucker got out," she hissed, words overlapping each other with how quickly she was talking. "I taught him how to break out of jail, and I bet you he hasn't given me a word of credit! He never thinks of anyone but himself, that selfish, stuck up little-"   
"Do you _want_ credit for something like that?" Prouvaire asked, quirking an eyebrow. Montparnasse whirled on him, snarling something in angry German. Prouvaire shrank back and nodded, dropping the brass knuckles he'd idly been toying with.  
"That's what I thought. Now, we need to start planning."


End file.
